


I Think That's Mine

by palominopup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Cas/Writer, Dean/Reporter, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7077664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palominopup/pseuds/palominopup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mix up at the Atlanta Airport places Dean Winchester's laptop in someone else's possession. A series of calls and texts bring two men together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think That's Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Last week, at the Montgomery Airport, my laptop was picked up by mistake by another passenger. I got his. I didn't discover the mix up until I arrived at my hotel in Phoenix. I went without it for a week as I attended a business conference and then flew to Tampa for a funeral.
> 
> One of my readers suggested that it would make a great Destiel story and so, here it is. Hope you enjoy it.

_ _

 

_“Flight 6324, departing for Miami, is now boarding at gate C13.”_

  
Dean sighed. Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta was a zoo every time he flew in or out of it, but today seemed worse. The TSA line was moving slow. He understood the reasoning behind the security checks, after all, he helped cover the 9/11 attacks, but it still irked him that it took so damn long. Crying babies, the loud intercom, the buzz of the crowd around him – it was all adding to the headache he already had.

  
He got to the metal tables and removed his laptop from his backpack. He put it on the conveyor belt. Next, he slung his carry-on bag up behind the rest of his stuff. Muttering to himself, he bent over and pulled off his boots. He was waved into the scanner. Dean placed his feet on the yellow marks on the floor and raised his arms above his head.

  
“Thank you, you can collect your things,” the unsmiling TSA agent said, already motioning to the next person in line.

  
_“Flight 1532, departing for Boston, is now boarding at gate D28.”_

  
Dean stepped forward and grabbed his backpack, stuffing his laptop inside. As a journalist, his laptop was his baby. He hated it being out of his hands for even a few minutes. He pulled on his boots, slung the bag over his shoulder and snagged his carry-on. He had a long trek to get to his gate. Checking his boarding pass once more, he took a second to scan the monitors. His flight to New York was on time at Gate B17.

With his small suitcase rolling behind him, he dodged all the other passengers trying to get to their flights. The smells from the various restaurants reminded Dean he hadn’t eaten since the previous night. If he’d known he’d have to fly so much working for _The Atlanta Sentinel_ , he’d have changed his major to basic basket weaving instead. As one of the largest newspapers in the southeast, the Sentinel covered not only national news, but world news. Dean Winchester hadn’t made it that far up the ladder yet, but he did get to travel around the States following death and destruction. His beat was disasters, accidents and shootings. He’d tried the political beat for awhile, but he almost got an ulcer from that shit.

  
He arrived at the tram doors just as one of the trains slid to a stop. He stepped on the crowded people mover and held on to the bar.

  
_“Welcome aboard the Atlanta Skytrain. Please hold on, this train is departing. The next station is Concourse A.”_

  
Dean braced his feet as the tram started forward. He gave a weak smile to the young mother next to him, who was holding onto a stroller, a diaper bag, a purse and a carry-on. He glanced down into the stroller. A baby looked back at him. He…at least Dean thought he was a he because of the blue overalls…looked like he was ready to wail. Dean prayed the kid held off until his stop.

  
_“Please hold on, this train is stopping.”_

  
The gods were watching over him, because the doors opened and the mother pushed out of the tram. More people entered and someone was pressed really close to his back.

  
_“Welcome aboard the Atlanta Skytrain. Please hold on, this train is departing. The next station is Concourse B.”_

Dean turned his head and all he saw was the back of a man’s head. The dude’s hair as dark brown and looked like it hadn’t seen a brush since he woke up. Dean inhaled and caught a whiff of something woodsy with a hint of cinnamon. The guy might not comb his hair, but he sure smelled good.

  
_“Please hold on, this train is stopping.”_

  
The doors swished open and Dean pushed his way out. He rode the escalator to the terminal’s main floor and took a second to get his bearings. He looked at his watch. He had thirty minutes before his flight left. He could wolf down a sandwich in that time.

  
There was a well known deli right before his gate and he ducked inside. The sandwich was satisfying and he still made it to the gate before the Sky Priority passengers were finished boarding. He got in the line and soon, he was walking down the skyway. The Sentinel didn’t spring for first class seating, so he got wedged into the center seat between an elderly woman and a twenty-something with a blue Mohawk. Dean wanted to work on his outline for his next article, but with only two hours in the air, it didn’t seem worth digging out his laptop.

  
Surprisingly enough, the elderly woman was interesting to talk to. She was a retired high school teacher and they had a long discussion on school shootings. Dean told her about his coverage of the Sandy Hook shooting and he found himself tearing up. She touched his arm and didn’t comment as he composed himself. He explained that he was going to New York to attend a press conference about crime in the Big Apple.

  
The man with the blue Mohawk listened to his iPod the entire flight, head bobbing slightly with the music.

  
As soon as he was on the ground, he hailed a cab and went straight to his hotel. After checking in, he rode the elevator to the fifth floor. After eight years working for the Sentinel, Dean saw his fair share of hotel rooms. They all looked the same to him. The newspaper didn’t book the four star places. Hell, mostly they booked him into one star dumps.

  
He really needed a real meal, but the idea of hitting the streets of New York made him queasy. He’d had enough of crowds today. He flipped through the hotel’s brochure and was pleased to see they had a coffee shop and a small café and bar. Dean left his backpack on the bed and left the room.

  
Downstairs, he entered the cozy bar and took a seat. The bartender gave him a nod and asked what he’d have. Dean ordered a beer and looked over the menu. A hamburger cost eighteen bucks. The accounting department would probably have a duck when they saw his expense report. He ate quietly and watched the news on the large flatscreen mounted above the bar. Three beers later, he signed for his tab and headed back upstairs. He could work a bit before getting some shuteye.

  
In the elevator, he plotted out his outline. He needed to find some information on the police commissioner. Apparently, he was well liked by both the men in blue and the public. He couldn’t be that nice, Dean thought critically.

  
With his laptop on the desk, the television’s volume on low and a bottle of water beside him, Dean sat down to research. He opened his laptop and blinked. The screen was filled with two gloriously naked men. Two gloriously naked and buff men. Two gloriously naked and buff men having sex…with each other. Dean blinked again and his mouth opened into a small ‘o’.

  
Dean had porn on his laptop…didn’t everyone? But his porn was safely stashed in a private folder called ‘car manual’. He ran his finger over the cursor pad and the picture disappeared, to be replaced with a picture of a beach with computer icons littering the screen. Dean didn’t do beaches. Sand got into places…bad places.

  
This was not his computer. “Shit…shit…shit,” Dean yelled, pushing the chair back and stood. He took a few steps, ran his fingers through his hair and groaned. “Think, Winchester.”

  
Atlanta was the last time he had his laptop in his hands. He’d removed it from his backpack and placed it on the conveyor belt. Step One: Call Atlanta. No, scratch that. Step One: Calm the fuck down.

  
Using his phone, Dean Googled the Atlanta airport’s number. “Christ,” he muttered as he saw the huge list of various numbers. He skimmed down the list until he found the one for TSA Security. A moment later, he was telling his story to the bored person on the other end of the line.

  
“I’m sorry, Sir. Perhaps you should have placed a decal on your laptop to make it recognizable.”

  
“Well, when I get it back, I’ll make damn sure I do that. What do you suggest? Perhaps a pink unicorn sticker?”

  
“There is no need for sarcasm, Sir. I’m simply suggesting…”

  
“Listen. I. Want. My. Laptop. Back. Should I write it in crayon and send it to you by carrier pigeon?”

  
“I will take your name and number and when whomever has your laptop calls in, I will give them your information. Is that acceptable?”

  
“Whoever,” Dean corrected automatically.

  
“Excuse me?”

  
“Never mind.” The lady didn’t seem at all concerned as Dean continued his rant about excessive security and creeps laying in wait to steal helpless laptops. Eventually, she interrupted.

  
“Name and phone number, please.”

  
Dean hung up the phone a minute later, still fuming. His files were all in his cloud. It wasn’t like he couldn’t retrieve his notes, but still…

  
He glared at the offending laptop. He should buy a pink unicorn sticker and slap it on top of it. Better yet, he should buy a fuckton of stickers. Since the other dude’s or dudette’s laptop wasn’t password protected, Dean could probably work off of it, but it just seemed wrong. He wanted his.

  
Dean paced. He pulled a beer out of the mini-fridge and drank it. He sat the empty bottle on the desk and frowned. He’d just drank a thirteen dollar beer. “Fuck,” Dean growled.

  
When he was about to lose his shit, talking to his brother helped. Sam was the voice of reason. Dean didn’t normally listen to reason, but it calmed him down just the same. His brother’s phone rang three times before Sam picked it up.

  
“You make it to the Big Apple without falling out of the sky in the long, metal tube?”

  
“You’re fucking hilarious, Sammy.” Sam teased him about his hatred, not fear, of flying. Dean Winchester wasn’t afraid of anything. He heard Sam laugh.

  
“Sorry. But I take it you landed okay.”

  
“Well, I landed. Minus my fucking laptop.”

  
“Wait…what?”

  
“My laptop got mixed up with someone else’s at TSA.” Dean toed off his boots while he explained the whole clusterfuck to his brother.

  
“See, Sammy, the airport gods have cursed me.”

  
“I’m not sure if there is such a thing as airport gods, Dean. I’m sure the person who has your laptop is just as freaked out. You’ll get it back. Don’t sweat it. Can you use your iPad to take your notes?”

  
“This dude’s computer isn’t password protected, so I could technically use his.”

  
“How do you know it’s a guy?”

  
“The wallpaper of two guys fucking was my first clue.”

  
The silence on the phone was long enough that Dean took it away from his ear to stare at the screen.

  
“Yo, Sammy, you still there?”

  
“You know, Dean, woman are really into reading and watching gay sex.”

  
“Riiiiiiight.”

  
“It’s true. Just delve into the world of fanfiction and you’ll see. You’re a reporter. Do your research.”

  
“Uh, huh…yeah, well, this reporter has more important things to research.”

  
The two brothers continued their conversation for a few more minutes before Dean’s yawns got too numerous to keep talking.

  
He plugged in his phone, got undressed and brushed his teeth. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**_Cause I'm back_ **  
**_Yes I'm back_ **  
**_Well I'm back_ **  
**_Yes I'm back_ **  
**_Well I'm back back_ **  
**_Well I'm back in black_ **  
**_Yes I'm back in black_ **

  
Dean groaned as his phone loud ringtone pulled him from a dream about two very naked and very buff men having sex. He may have been one of the men. He’d never know now, because some jackass was calling him at…Dean looked at the clock by the bed…midnight. It was fucking midnight.

  
“Hello,” he mumbled sleepily.

  
“Dean Winchester?” The voice was deep and gravelly and Dean was instantly alert. Did porn sites do random calls? Was he the winner of a phone sex conversation with Dr. Sexy?

  
“Yeah.”

  
“My name is Castiel Novak and I believe you have my laptop and I have yours.” Dean sat up and flipped on the lamp. “I received your name and telephone number from the Atlanta Airport.”

  
“Awesome. Where are you? I’m in New York.” Cas-tee-el, what kind of name was that? Novak sounded easier to spell.

  
“I am in Los Angeles. I’m sorry about the time difference. How would you like to rectify this situation? I suppose we could overnight them.”

  
Dean’s mind was still trying to catch up with the conversation and he couldn’t concentrate on what the sexy voice was getting at. “I’m in New York,” he repeated.

  
“Yes, I believe you said that already. Shall we overnight them?”

  
“No. No, you can’t ship it. What if something happens to her? She might get crushed or lost in space.”

  
“I don’t believe space would be involved,” the voice said dryly.

  
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay…wait…let me think.” After a moment, Dean asked. “You still there?”

  
“Yes, I was giving you sufficient time to think.”

  
Was this asshat being a dick on purpose? For some reason, Dean didn’t think so. “Okay, let’s think about this logically. I live in Atlanta. Where do you live?”

  
“Atlanta.” Dean pumped his fist in the air.

  
“Bingo. I’ll be back in town on Thursday.”

  
“I’m staying in L.A. the rest of the week. My return flight is on Sunday.” Well, damn. Dean got up and looked out the hotel window. The city was lit up around him. Cabs and cars were still thick on the street below.

  
“I guess that will have to do. Just give me a call when you get in and we’ll meet somewhere.”

  
“Very well.”

  
“Hey, wait…would it be okay if I used your computer for some research? I need to see if I can find some dirt on New York’s police commissioner.” Dean realized how awkward that sounded and quickly amended it. “I’m a journalist. I’m not stalking anyone or doing anything creepy.”

  
“I feel uncomfortable…”

  
“Don’t freak out. I won’t go through your stuff. You got my word on that. I just need to log into the internet and put some stuff in my cloud. If it makes you feel any better, you can use mine.” Dean felt safe enough that this Novak guy would be poking around in his ‘car manual’ file.

  
“I suppose…”

  
“Cool. Later, Dude.” Dean ended the call. He was wide awake now. He saved Novak’s number on his phone and then his eyes landed on the laptop, still closed on the desk. He wondered what other pictures the man had. He opened the main pictures file and didn’t see much. A couple of male model types, some interior shots of a house and several pictures of guinea pigs. “Weird.”

  
The guy had at least a hundred different files. Curious, but knowing he needed sleep, Dean closed the laptop and went back to sleep.

  
The next day was hectic. The press conference was slated for ten. Dean made it to One Police Plaza by nine-thirty, but there were already hundreds of reporters milling about. Dean managed to get himself close enough that he could ask a question if he needed to. He spent the morning researching and going over his notes. The commissioner appeared to be a good man. Big Catholic family, two sons on the force…no skeletons in his closet.

  
The conference started on time and Dean found it informative. He recorded the entire thing and would transcribe his notes later that night. His plan was to interview a few of New York’s finest tomorrow and then fly home to finish up the article.

  
He was riding in the cab back to the hotel when he phone chirped.

  
**Text from Novak/12:02 – Is there a reason you take pictures of your penis?**  
**Text from Novak/12:03 – I am assuming it is your penis.**

  
Dean squawked. The cab driver eyed him suspiciously in the rearview mirror. He typed quickly.

  
**Text to Novak/12:04 – WTF. You aren’t supposed to snoop through my shit.**  
**Text from Novak/12:05 – I never said that. Are you going to answer the question?**

  
Furious, Dean tapped on the screen.

  
**Text to Novak/12:06 – I’m invoking the 5th Amendment. And stay the fuck out of my private stuff.**  
**Text from Novak/12:07 – Did you mean to say ‘private’?**

  
And then Dean got an emoji right after that. He was going to strangle the man. Right after he got his laptop back. Strangle him until he turned blue.

 

**Text from Novak/12:10 – FYI, the Fifth Amendment protects a person from being compelled to be a witness against himself in a criminal case. You cannot invoke the Fifth Amendment because someone found pictures of your penis. There are quite a few. You are proud of your penis, aren’t you?**

  
“Oh, my fuckin’ God. I’m going to kill the motherfucker.”

  
“Hey, Buddy, you got a problem?” The cab driver didn’t look real happy with Dean.

  
“No, man, no problem.” Dean wanted to hit something. The cab stopped in front of his hotel and he paid the hack. As soon as he was in his room, he snatched up the laptop, settled down on the bed and prepared for war.

  
One by one, he opened each file. He found scanned copies of utility bills and for a blissful second or two, thought about calling and having the guy’s power and water shut off. But, no, that would be beyond nasty.

  
“Jackpot,” Dean whispered. This file contained a list of files with smutty titles. This should be good.

  
“Cumming Undone, Hot Dicks, Temptation Island, Construction Hunks, Wanted Man – Damn, what the fuck?” Dean clicked on the first file. It contained a Word document and a few picture files. He opened the word file.

  
_**Cumming Undone**_  
_**By Castiel Novak**_

  
_**Sweat dripped down his tight stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his black, silk boxers. I longed to follow its trail with my tongue…** _

  
“Whoa.” Dean continued to read. An hour later, his neck was stiff from leaning against the headboard and he had an erection. It seemed that this Novak guy was pretty good at writing smut. Man on man smut.

  
Dean was an equal opportunity lover. He liked the soft curves of a woman and the taste of pussy. He also liked a strong body and sucking cock. He wasn’t picky. He was, however, horny after reading a few chapters of porn.

  
It wasn’t the best jerk off session because he was too lazy to get up and find some lotion, but it did the trick. He went back to poking into Castiel Novak’s life. Assuming the other files were also stories about two men getting it on, Dean backed out and opened another file. This one was labeled ‘inspiration’. There were hundreds of pictures. Handsome actors, half naked models and fully nude porn stars. Dean had to close the file after a few minutes. Jeez, who knew there were that many hot men in the world?

  
He shoved the laptop aside and grabbed his phone.

  
**Text to Novak/2:48 – Your a dirty motherfucker.**  
**Text from Novak/2:49 – You’re.**  
**Text to Novak/2:50 – Li8ke you never make mistakes.**  
**Text from Novak/2:51 – Like.**  
**Text to Novak/2:52 – Duck you.**  
**Text from Novak/2:53 – Fuck.**

Dean wasn’t sure when his anger turned to amusement. He was actually chuckling as he typed.

 **Text to Novak/2:54 – After looking at some of your pics, I’m worried my dick pix might not be safe.**  
**Text from Novak/2:55 – Which folder?**  
**Text to Novak/2:56 – You have more than one folder of naked men?**  
**Text from Novak/2:57 – I am invoking the Fifth Amendment.**

Dean laughed out loud and opened the laptop again.

 **Text to Novak/2:59 – Where are they?**  
**Text from Novak/3:00 – Your bush is a ginger color. Can I assume you are a ginger?**

Damn, was he still looking at Dean’s dick pictures? He didn’t have that many. Did he? Dean’s phone chirped again, but this time it was to alert him to a Facebook notification. Facebook…Dean grinned. If Novak was like him, he kept his password logged on. Quickly, he pulled up the hotel’s wifi and opened the browser. “Bingo.”

Novak had his Facebook page bookmarked. Dean opened it and his mouth dropped open. Castiel Novak was hot. Okay, that wasn’t accurate. Castiel Novak was about fifty shades hotter than hot. His profile picture was obviously a selfie.

 

Blue eyes stared back at him. And that messy bedhead…fuck. Dean noted that Novak’s relationship status said ‘it’s complicated’. Curious, Dean went to the tab marked photos. Most of the pictures were selfies. As a journalist, Dean was very observant. By looking at the photographs, Dean figured out that Novak was a runner, he favored jeans and t-shirts, he looked great in aviators and…his boyfriend was…not what Dean was expecting. So, Novak liked sawed-off little men.

Dean closed the laptop. He was wasting time. Maybe he’d walk around, grab some food or something. He could always go hang out in the bar.

  
Two whiskeys and a beer later, Dean stepped onto the sidewalk. He spied a small pizzeria a few doors down and decided pizza was good enough for dinner. He’d barely sat down when his phone chirped.

  
**Text from Novak/4:28 – Are you still flying home Thursday?**

  
Dean pocketed the phone without replying. The server brought his beer and slices a few minutes later. The pizza was good, but it didn’t satisfy him. Feeling out of sorts, he walked back to the hotel. Maybe some television would get him out of this sudden funk.

  
Halfway through an episode of NCIS, Dean’s phone rang. He picked it up and stared at the screen. Novak. Nope. Not right now. Not when Abby was about to figure out what the foreign substance was under the dead guy’s fingernails.  
Sometime around ten, Dean’s phone chirped again. He didn’t bother rolling over to check.

  
The next morning, Dean rolled out of bed, showered and dressed. He had a few interviews scheduled for the day and he didn’t want to be late. He didn’t look at his phone until he was at the front entrance to the 34th Precinct. He paused before going in to check his notes and he heard the distinctive ping. There were three texts from Novak.

  
**Text from Novak/7:32 – I tried calling you.**  
**Text from Novak/10:04 – Did I piss you off?**  
**Text from Novak/9:02 – Please call when you get back to Atlanta and I will arrange for a courier to exchange our laptops.**

“Shit,” Dean muttered. “Shit,” he repeated. Moving out of the way of people entering and exiting the precinct, Dean typed a message.

**Text to Novak/9:05 – Not mad. Didn’t think your boyfriend would like our conversation.**

Dean put his phone back into his pocket and stepped inside the noisy police station. He interviewed three police officers – a male beat cop, a female beat cop and a detective. His phone vibrated in his pocket, but he ignored it.  
It was after lunch when he finished his last interview and walked out into the street. Sometime while he was inside, it had started to rain. Dean raised his arm and ran for a cab. Once inside, he checked his phone.

  
**Text from Novak/9:09 – There is no current boyfriend.**

  
Dean stared at the screen. No boyfriend. His fingers tapped out a new message.

  
**Text to Novak/12:59 – Your FB status says complicated.**  
**Text from Novak/1:00 – You snooped on my FB page? Have you no sense of honor?**  
**Text to Novak/1:01 – I’m a journalist. It’s my job to snoop.**

Dean waited for a reply. The cab stopped at his hotel and he paid the fare. Instead of entering the lobby, Dean saw a small deli and headed for it. After ordering, he still didn’t have a reply. Frowning, he organized his notes. His meal came.

  
_***ping***_

  
**Text from Novak/1:34 – You are quite handsome for a nosy reporter.**

  
Dean’s eyebrows came together in confusion. How did he know…shit.

  
**Text to Novak/1:36 – You hacked my FB page!!!!! Asshole.**  
**Text from Novak/1:37 – You can do it and it’s journalism. I do it and I’m an asshole. Double standard much?**  
**Text from Novak/1:38 – Your legs are bowed. How delightful.**

Ignoring the double standard comment, because the bastard was right, Dean settled on the next text. Who used the word delightful? His legs were slightly bowed and he was a bit self-conscious about it. But delightful?

 **Text to Novak/1:40 – No boyfriend. So? Girlfriend?**  
**Text from Novak/1:41 – No.**  
**Text to Novak/1:42 – Then why complicated?**  
**Text from Novak/1:45 – I may or may not be engaged.**  
**Text to Novak/1:46 – HUH????? Don’t you know?**  
**Text from Novak/1:47: Not really.**

Okay, the reporter in Dean needed to know this story. He called.

“Hello Dean.”

“Explain this engagement thing.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m curious.” There was a moment of silence, but Dean could hear the other man breathing. He waited him out.

“My brother, Gabriel, is engaged to a nice girl. Several months ago, they broke off their engagement and Gabriel drowned his pain in expensive vodka and he had an affair. Well, technically, it wasn’t an affair since he and Ruby cancelled their engagement…”

“Okay, so he fucked around...” Dean wanted to hurry this story along.

“Crudely put, but yes. Afterwards, he and Ruby decided to make a go of it. They worked through their issues and seem to be happy. Meg, the woman he had the affair with, showed up pregnant a few months later.”

“Damn. Is he positive it’s his?”

“A paternity test was performed.”

“Shit.” Dean was trying to follow, but he was getting more confused. “Is there a point to this story, Novak?”

“Castiel.”

“Huh?”

“My name is Castiel.” He pronounced it slowly, like Dean was a freakin’ idiot. Dean knew his name, he’d seen it on Facebook. “And yes, there is a point. Meg wanted the Novak name for her unborn child. Gabriel refuses to marry her and I tried to talk to her about the situation. I informed her she didn’t need to marry a Novak to place the name on the birth certificate, but she is…adamant.”

“What’s so important about the Novak name? Your brother a billionaire or something? And Castiel is a mouthful, by the way. Novak is easier to say.”

“Yes.”

Dean’s almost dropped his phone. “Yes? Yes, what? Novak is easier to say or your brother is a billionaire?”

“Well, I would say millionaire would be the most relevant term to use.”

“Christ.” This conversation was getting harder to follow. Dean rubbed the back of his neck and thanked God that Novak…Castiel… wasn’t a witness he had to interview.

“I suppose one could say Christ did have something to do with it.”

“Huh?” Now, Dean really was confused.

“My father was Reverend Robert Novak.”

“Holy fucking shit.” Robert Novak was a televangelist who scammed millions out of their hard earned money. He died of a heart attack ten years ago. No one was sad to see him go. Not even his family, if Dean remembered correctly. He racked his brain. Two sons. Trophy wife. Jets. Mansions. One son an outcast because he was gay. Fuck.

“I see you’ve put the pieces together,” Castiel’s voice was softer now, less confident.

“It was fucked up. So, your brother kept all the money?”

“No. Gabriel gave the money back to as many of the people as we could locate.” Dean was impressed.

“But he’s still a millionaire?”

“Gabriel and I inherited money from my mother’s side of the family.” Obviously, not the trophy wife.  
“Mother died when I was five. Gabriel was eight. Father remarried twice.” Dean’s mind was spinning.

“Let me get this straight. You and your brother inherited money…so does that make you a millionaire too?”

Dean loved the sound of the soft laughter. “Why, are you a golddigger? Are you only being nice to me because you plan on getting pregnant, forcing us into a marriage of convenience only to have me committed to an insane asylum to gain control of my money?”

It was Dean’s turn to laugh. “No. And no.” The comment about pregnancy brought Dean back to the original conversation. “Getting back to the pregnant woman…” He really didn’t care about Cas’ money. Huh. Cas? Better than Castiel. Easier to roll of the tongue. Mind goes straight to gutter.

“Meg.”

“Yeah, her.”

“Meg was very persuasive. And since I will probably never produce an heir, I told her I would marry her.”

“But you’re gay.”

“I am.”

“Is she aware of that fact?”

“She is.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re hard to interview?”

“Once or twice.”

“And now you are may be engaged?”

“She recently decided that she didn’t want to marry an openly gay man who is a published author of gay romance and erotica.” Ahhhhh, the lightbulb when off in Dean’s head. It explained the sexy smut.

“She called off the engagement?”

“Not technically…hence the use of the term maybe. She still wants a portion of the Novak money though.”

Everything was beginning to make a little bit of sense now. Dean looked at his watch. I need to get some work done. Guess I’ll talk to you later. Oh, yeah, I’m flying home in the morning.”

“Safe travels, Dean.”

“Bye, Cas.”

Dean spent the rest of the afternoon and the evening working on the article. His editor was going to love it. Once he was in bed, he read some more of Cas’ book. Unfortunately, it led to another session of jerking off.

 

At six o’clock in the morning, Dean’s phone rang. His editor. Dean counted to ten before answering.

“Mr. Crowley. Good morning.”

“You’ve been booked on a flight to Dallas. There’s been another school shooting. Flight 3312. Leaving in two hours. Be on it. I’ll email you the details.”

Dean didn’t even get a chance to respond before his boss hung up. He hastily took a shower and threw his stuff into his carry-on. Six hours later, he landed in Dallas. He went straight to the scene and joined the throng of reporters, news vans and camera crews.

When he finally made it to his hotel, it was after eleven. Three college kids were killed by a boy who was pissed he flunked a course. What was the world coming to? Dean had failed his fair share of classes, but he didn’t feel like going around shooting people.

 **Text to Cas/11:16 – Are you up?**  
**Text from Cas/11:17 – It is only nine here, Dean. Are you okay?**

Dean stared at the phone. Was the guy a mind reader or something? Fully clothed, he let his body relax onto the mattress.

 **Text to Cas/11:20 – School shooting. I’m in Dallas.**  
**Text from Cas/11:22 – I am so sorry, Dean. What you do. It must be hard.**  
**Text to Cas/11:23 – Yeah.**  
**Text to Cas/11:23 – Anyway, not sure when I’ll be home.**  
**Text from Cas/11:24 – Don’t worry about it. Do what you have to do.**  
**Text to Cas/11:25 – Thanks.**

Dean roused himself and undressed. He was mentally and physically exhausted. When he crawled under the covers, he looked at his phone plugged in on the nightstand.

 **Text to Cas/11:40 – Goodnight, Cas.**  
**Text from Cas/11:41 – Sweet dreams, Dean.**

He slept. Usually after a bad day like today, Dean had nightmares, but that night, he slept and didn’t dream.

Hours turned into days in the aftermath of the shooting. Public outrage led to more violence and Dean was there to cover it. The one constant in his life were his daily conversations with Cas. Already home in Atlanta, Cas kept his mood light just by being himself. He made Dean laugh when he felt like crying. When he wasn’t talking or texting Cas, Dean explored the other man’s computer. By now, he’d seen every picture and had read two of Cas’ books.

By checking Cas’ FB page daily, Dean found out that Cas was well liked by many people. He had lots of fans of his writing. Many might say that Dean was being a stalker, but Cas knew he was doing it. Sometimes they would talk and both would be on each other’s Facebook page, citing funny memes and cute puppy pictures.

Dean discovered Cas had three guinea pigs named Robin, Maurice and Barry. That conversation had started out hilarious.

“You named your rats after the Bee Gees?”

“Guinea pigs, Dean. While of the rodent family, they are not rats. Not that there is anything wrong with rats. They are very intelligent and loving creatures.”

“Uh huh. So, why the Bee Gees?”

“You will make fun of me, Dean.” Dean grinned into the phone.

“Cas. You know me better than that.” Dean heard the other man snort and chuckled.

“See, you are already laughing.” Damned if Cas didn’t sound petulant. Dean wished he could see him. Dean’s laughter died. When had this stupid mix-up of computers become a good thing? When had he started thinking of Cas as a friend? Cas must have taken Dean’s sudden silence as the signal for him to tell the story.

“I got them on Halloween last year. I couldn’t decide what to name them, so I thought I just wait a few days until the perfect names came to me. Since it was Halloween, I dressed up for a party and to get into character, I began to sing Bee Gee songs…and they seemed to like it.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Uhm, okay. Get into character? For what?”

“I went as John Travolta’s character in Saturday Night Fever.”

“Did you…” Laughter bubbled up and Dean couldn’t stop it. “…you…” He actually snorted. “…sing into your…hairbrush…”

“I hate you.”

Dean roared. Tears were streaming down his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he really laughed.

“I’m glad you are so amused, Dean. Please don’t strain something on my account.” Cas’ voice was dry and uppity, but Dean could hear the affection too.

“Gotta go, man. I’ll send you a text when I get to the airport.”

“Safe travels, Dean.”

“Bye, Cas.”

From Dallas, Dean went to Jackson, Mississippi, where a young gay man was beaten to death and left on his parent’s front lawn, bloody and naked.

 **Text to Cas/1:48 – In Mississippi. I hate my job.**  
**Text from Cas/1:49 – I’m here.**

Those two words just about broke Dean. He lay on the crappy hotel bed and let the tears fall. Without thinking, Dean called Cas.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t speak. He wasn’t sure why he even called. He sniffed back the snot and brushed at his eyes.

“One of the Guinea Pigs got out of his cage today while I was chopping vegetables to feed them. I searched the whole house and finally found him on the couch in the den. He chewed on my remote control.”

“Which one?” Cas was good at this. Good at taking Dean away from the horrors of the world.

“Robin. He’s a little bastard.”

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Don’t ever change.”

“I’m not planning on it.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Goodbye, Dean.” Dean hung up and when his phone chirped a second later, he looked at the screen and laughed. Tears forgotten for a few moments in time.

 

Two days later, Dean stepped off the plane in Atlanta. It had been two weeks since he’d left. Two weeks since a stupid mistake changed his life. He had a goal now. No, that was wrong. He had two goals.

  
Instead of going home, Dean drove his car out of long-term parking and headed to the highrise that was the home of _The Atlanta Sentinel_.

  
He exited the elevator on the seventeenth floor and walked down the carpeted hallway. The pretty blonde looked up from her monitor. “Can I help you?”

  
“I need to see him.”

  
“Mr. Crowley is busy.”

  
“Tell him it’s Dean Winchester.” She frowned, but picked up the phone.

  
“Mr. Crowley, there is a Mr. Dean Winchester here to see you….no…no…” She covered the mouthpiece. “Is this important?”

  
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” Dean said matter-of-factly.

  
“Yes, Sir, he says it is important…very well.” She hung up and stood. After smoothing her too short skirt, she came around the desk and led Dean to a door. With a flourish that would rival Vanna White turning over a vowel, she flung the door open and motioned him inside. Dean walked through and heard the door shut behind him.

  
“Dean. Welcome home. Your last three articles were fantastic. You have promise, boy.”

  
“Thank you.” Dean couldn’t decide whether to sit in one of the expensive chairs or remain standing. He compromised by putting his hand on the back of one to steady himself. Crowley looked at him expectantly.

  
“Well? What was so important that you interrupted my afternoon?”

  
“I want a break from…” Dean stopped, gathering his strength. Crowley sighed loudly and leaned back in his chair.

  
“You’re quitting?”

  
“No…yes…” Crowley sat up and leaned over the desk, his hands clasping in front of him.

  
“Well, which is it?”

  
“I don’t want to leave the paper, but I can’t continue covering…the stuff I’m covering.”

  
“You realize I have dozens of young, talented employees that would kill for your position.”

  
Dean swallowed and concentrated on loosening his fingers from the upholstery. “I do realize…”

  
Suddenly, Cas’ pep talk from the night before came back to him and he squared his shoulders. “Mr. Crowley, I’m a damn good reporter, but I don’t want to write about the shit that people do to each other anymore. I want to continue to work for you…for the Sentinel, but in another capacity.”

  
Crowley didn’t speak for a few moments. Dean met his eyes with more confidence than he felt. Crowley finally pursed his lips and leaned back again. “You follow the Atlanta Braves?”

  
Confused for a second, Dean simply nodded. Why was Crowley talking about sports now?

  
“I have a spot for a reporter to cover them. You would only be traveling during the season. But I would expect updates all year long. Trades, players’ personal lives…you know the drill. You wouldn’t be making as much…”

  
“I’ll take it,” Dean said, grinning.

  
“You fuck it up, I’ll have you working on the loading docks, Winchester.”

  
“Yes, Sir.”

  
Dean wore that grin until he got into his car. He looked down at the laptop on the seat next to him. First, he needed to get home and shower.

  
Two hours later, Dean parked in the driveway of a really nice brick and stone house. He whistled and thought back to the conversation they had never finished about Cas’ financial status. Picking up the computer, he tucked it under his arm and got out of the car. He’d just made it across the expensively paved driveway when the front door opened. Cas. He looked so much better in person.

  
“Hello, Dean. I think that’s mine.” Cas’ voice sent a shiver up Dean’s spine.

  
**_One year later…_**

  
Dean stared at the screen of his phone and laughed. Robin, Maurice and Barry looked back at him. Below the picture was a text.

**Text from Cas/2:38 – They miss you.**

  
Hearing the twack of a bat making contact with a baseball, Dean knew he didn’t have much time. His fingers flew over the screen.

  
**Text to Cas/2:39 – I miss their daddy. We’ll be back home on Friday. I made us reservations at Aria.**

  
He’d been assured that it was one of Atlanta’s most romantic restaurants. Dean needed that night to be perfect.

  
**Text from Cas/2:40 – Aria? Expensive. What’s the occasion?**  
**Text to Cas/2:41 – Just missing you. Gotta go. Love you.**  
**Text from Cas/2:42 - Love you more.**

Before taking his place in the press box, Dean wrapped his fingers around the small velvet box in his pocket.

  
_And they lived happily ever after…._

 


End file.
